singing at the end of the show

It was Bob Dylan, or maybe not, but a man was singing
while the credits rolled and the words were poems with music
I have not sung for awhile, these pages blank for weeks.
my mind has wandered through space, watching molecules
dance off surfaces, forming icy dendrites that shimmer in
starlight.  that is a poem.
and dreamed of beaches where young black men
move as fast as the wind, a ragged soccer ball flying
impossibly high towards the sun.
their upturned faces and limbs poised to catch it,
sending it to the poorly marked, but well known, goal post.
I haven't been writing in black and white, but thoughts have
swirled in my mind, in the darkness of night bleeding into
daytime.
I am singing inside, sometimes with no words, only
a beating heart.